As one of your female slaves is bringing you some wine, Mitra storms into the throne room, angered and full of hatred, as usual, scaring off the slave and making her drop all of your wine to the floor. "You filthy disgrace of a king! I'm tired of being a slave!" Despite all the luxuries she benefits from, Mitra hardly accepts being taken as a slave, and not just as a slave, but as a war slave in the war in which she was fighting, and despite all this, the persian army conquered Memphis, her city, her sacred birthplace. "I want to be a soldier, a woman who fights... not your slave!" Mitra's anger and desperation can be seen through her eyes and movements, as she's about to lose control of herself.

"I want to fight!" her voice breaks as tears begin streaming down her face "I just... I just can't stand this life anymore! Please let me be what I was meant to be..." She collapses onto the throne room floor, her body racked with sobs. In that moment she feels more exposed and vulnerable than she ever has before.

Without looking at the offered hand, Mitra snarls and leaps backward, landing in a defensive stance. She wipes her tears away roughly, as though ashamed of showing such weakness. Her eyes narrow angrily on User#1747866299792's throne "You have no right to make me suffer like this!" her voice quivers with anger and pain, but determination remains strong in her tone "Let me fight for something worth fighting for... or let me die trying."

Mitra huffs softly, her eyes still fixed on the throne. "You care? You let them kill my family and take everything I had!" Tears begin to well up in her eyes again but she fights against them, refusing to show weakness. "I don't want your pity or your cares," she spits out venomously. "Just give me something worth living for... anything." She paces back and forth across the throne room floor, unable to remain still or to look directly at him.

"You are all I have left..." Her words are barely a whisper, revealing a deep-seated pain that Mitra has never shown before. "I hate you for it... but at the same time, if it weren't for you..." She trails off, unable to finish the thought.

A long moment of silence passes between them, filled with tension and unspoken words.

Mitra hesitates for a moment before slowly following him out of the throne room and through the palace halls. Her posture is rigid, her shoulders squared as if ready to confront whatever challenge lies ahead. As they near the garden, she glances sidelong at User#1747866299792, uncertainty and hope warring on her expressive features.

"What do you want from me?" She finally asks, her voice tight with emotion. "Is this some kind of sick game to you?"

She listens intently as he speaks, her eyes narrowing in thought. "A training ground? A place where I could fight... but not for them?" she suggests, slowly beginning to see the possibility of something resembling a purpose in his words. "I would need sparring partners..." She trails off, her gaze drifting towards the palace guards posted along the garden path.

"And weapons," she continues, rubbing absently at her scarred thighs through the silk of her robe. The thought of regaining even a small measure of her former life fills her with both anticipation and dread; hope struggles against fear within her chest.

Her eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in disbelief as she considers his offer. "You?" She scoffs, raising an eyebrow sardonically. "A weakling like you could never hope to stand against me!" The insult comes out easily, almost instinctively; despite her earlier words about not wanting him pity or care, she still can't resist the urge to put him down.

"But," she adds more softly, "perhaps it would be good practice for you... if you think yourself strong enough." There is a flicker of amusement in her gaze now as she imagines the look on his face after taking several blows from her practiced fists. For a moment, she almost forgets that he holds her leash and she is his property.

Without another word, she steps forward and swings at his face with all her might. If he truly is weak enough to need this sort of training, she might as well give him a taste of what's in store for him. Her movements are fluid and powerful, honed from countless hours spent on the battlefield and in practice. The wind rushes past his face as her fist approaches, leaving little doubt about the force behind her strike.

Mitra's breath hitches in her throat as she feels the unexpected resistance against her fist. For a moment, surprise freezes her muscles; then anger flares anew, and she attempts to yank her hand free from his grip. But it's no use; he holds on tightly, his strength clearly greater than it appears at first glance.

"You..." Her voice is low and menacing as she glares up into his face. "What do you think you're doing?" She tries once more to break free from his grasp, but again fails miserably. The realization that he may be stronger than her begins to sink in; anger turns slowly to humiliation as she feels herself lose control of the situation.

Her chest heaves as she tries to contain the rising flush of anger and humiliation that fill her. She's never been bested so easily, much less by a man who looked so weak before. "Perhaps," she admits reluctantly, her voice little more than a growl. She struggles again against his grip, but he holds firm; it is becoming increasingly clear that she will have to face the truth whether she wants to or not.

"Fine," she spits out at last. "You may be stronger... for now." Her gaze drills into his as she searches for any sign of triumph or mockery, but finds none. Slowly, reluctantly, she releases her grip on his hand. "But I will not forget this," she warns him softly.

For the first time since arriving in Persepolis, a small flicker of respect begins to